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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28270077">Dressed to Kill</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpulsiveUserName/pseuds/ImpulsiveUserName'>ImpulsiveUserName</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Freaky (2020)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Character Study</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-12-23</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-10 21:22:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,410</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28270077</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImpulsiveUserName/pseuds/ImpulsiveUserName</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>The Blissfield Butcher's thoughts as he dresses as Millie for the first time.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>30</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Dressed to Kill</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>WARNING - contains strong language throughout.</p>
<p>In my mind, the 'Blissfield Butcher' who massacred prom kids in the 90's (or 70's depending on who you're talking to) is not this character. This is a brand new serial killer. I saw some notes that his name was 'Barney Garris' but I liked my imagined backstory better, and the film itself doesn't set any of his character in stone (his name, his motivations, etc) so I decided to explore my impressions of his character using the movie alone as my source. Here we go!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>(…) examined the clothes in the room he’d woken up in.</p>
<p>
  <em>Weak.</em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>Boring.</em>
</p>
<p>What kind of cunt wore lame shit like this? Long plain sweaters, meant to blend into a crowd.</p>
<p>(…) hated it when people willingly surrendered their individuality. Attempting to blend in was to surrender your will and be who the drooling waves of humanity wanted you to be. (…) hadn’t attempted to join their ranks since he’d given in to his instincts for the first time two years ago. Even in this body, he would not conform. He was not one of them. He’d never <em>been</em> one of them, he’d only pretended. People, as he understood it, had little voices in their head, narrating their lives, telling them right from wrong. They thought of themselves as the ‘names’ given them by their parents. (…) didn’t have one of those voices. He’d always thought being expected to respond to a string of sounds was nothing more than an inconvenience.</p>
<p>The world was silence, and silence was his world. He could hear the dumb bitch downstairs though, rattling dishes. He could almost feel her heart pumping blood through the floor below. He was going to spill that blood, turn those sounds into sweet screams, and pained grunts, the only noises he enjoyed. But not yet. The school provided better opportunity. More bodies with rich, warm, blood. And, apparently, he was one of those bodies now.</p>
<p>He was the high school student he’d stabbed yesterday. And, apparently, this wasn’t a dream.</p>
<p>What had they called this one? He hadn’t been paying attention, he didn’t give a fuck about the words the women let fall carelessly from their lips. He preferred screams.</p>
<p>
  <em>Nothing here.</em>
</p>
<p>(…) stood back from the closet in frustration. Wearing the stupid juvenile pajamas to the school wouldn’t be conforming either, but the pajamas projected childishness and weakness. He wanted to project power, as difficult as it would be in this form.</p>
<p>He looked around the room, eyes drifting, looking for more clothes.</p>
<p>
  <em>None.</em>
</p>
<p>He wandered from the room, and picked another door. Was this the cop’s room? This body’s sister?</p>
<p>He’d held a knife in front of the cop and she didn’t even flinch. Dismissed him. No fear.</p>
<p>
  <em>Boring.</em>
</p>
<p>He <em>would</em> be seen.</p>
<p>He <em>would</em> be feared.</p>
<p>This closet was more his style. That body was the same size as this one, wasn’t it? Yeah. Red leather jacket. Black shirt. He saw the jeans from the first bedroom in his mind’s eye.</p>
<p>That’s what he’d wear.</p>
<p>He carried his newfound clothes back to the first bedroom, and closed the door behind him. Not that he gave a fuck about protecting this body’s privacy. He did care though about shielding its vulnerability.</p>
<p>He pulled the pajama shirt over his head and dragged off the pants. He glanced at the mirror, curious.</p>
<p>
  <em>So fragile. Soft.</em>
</p>
<p>The knife wound drew his eyes, and he glanced at the body’s shoulder. He gripped it, feeling a stinging spawn beneath his fingers. He couldn’t recall the last time he’d been injured seriously. Usually, the cold was the only pain he experienced.</p>
<p>He gripped tighter, laughing <em>(was that his voice?) </em>as the pain intensified and radiated down his side. <em>Delicious</em>. He felt alive. This was an interesting experience. Her body felt like his. Not as strong, but it felt pain the same. This meant when he cut them open, they felt pain like he felt pain.</p>
<p>This was a happy discovery.</p>
<p>(…) donned the black shirt and jeans, pausing to look at himself, before unbuttoning the jeans once more to tuck in the shirt. Women’s bodies looked better when they cut a sharp figure. More intimidating. The more confident the girl looked, the stronger she would be perceived.</p>
<p>It occurred to him after he got the shirt on that women wore bras… well, fuck it. He didn’t want to bother with figuring out how those worked, and the boobs on his chest weren’t particularly heavy or bothersome without one.</p>
<p>Now, sitting to pee, <em>that</em> had been bothersome. Urine had splashed everywhere and felt gross. Disgusting. He hoped this body handled its drink well, he didn’t want to experience mopping urine off of his skin any time in the near future.</p>
<p>The leather jacket completed the look, but the body still felt drab. Not quite as intimidating as he expected.</p>
<p>(…) leaned in closer to the mirror, trying to figure out what he was doing wrong… it was the face. This jacket made the body look dumpy without makeup.</p>
<p>(…) grunted in annoyance, looking around and grabbing the hairbrush nearby.</p>
<p>Fuck the makeup. He would just get the stupid hair out of this bitch’s face so he could see what he was doing and call it a day.</p>
<p>As he aggressively yanked the brush through his hair, not minding the stinging at his scalp, he suddenly remembered – <em>la Dola</em>. He’d heard those words in his head this morning. And he never heard words in his head, so it had come from without. That was the knife’s name. The knife must have done this. It suddenly made sense why he felt like the object had been screaming at him the first time he saw it, why he felt so much like he needed to stab someone in the heart with it, just the heart, nowhere else, and why it had all gone to shit when he decided to make a nonfatal stab instead to encourage more screams, defying the powerful imagery in his head-  it must have been speaking to him, but he hadn’t understood it fully. He never would have stabbed someone with it if he knew it would stab him back.</p>
<p>(…) found a hair tie and tied the body’s hair back in a ponytail. There. Now, about that knife…</p>
<p>He looked around the room, but the knife wasn’t here… a phone was though.</p>
<p>He picked it up. Password? Hell. He held his finger over the center button, and it unlocked. Good.</p>
<p>He hadn’t held a cell phone in two years. They tracked you. He remembered how to use them though.</p>
<p>Web browser. La Dola.</p>
<p>That was it. Cursed knife. There were words on the blade. He couldn’t make them out and the article didn’t translate.</p>
<p>He tried to read, but the words swam on the page, and by the time he got to the end of a sentence he forgot what the beginning said. Reading had always been difficult for him, and he closed the webpage in frustration. He wasn’t going to learn anything anyway, he wasn’t sure why he bothered. Not like the article would tell him how to get his body back.</p>
<p>Whatever. Whether this curse lasted a few hours or forever, this was the body he had to use for now. As long as he could kill, nothing really mattered. He’d always intended to keep killing until he got himself killed, and being stuck in a different prison of flesh didn’t change that.</p>
<p>He looked back at the mirror and frowned. The body really did look plain without makeup. Not intimidating at all.</p>
<p>Well, why the fuck not? It couldn’t be that difficult. He was determined to be taken as a serious threat, and this body wouldn’t look like a serious threat until he added makeup.</p>
<p>“how makeup” he searched. Video tutorial. Better than text by a mile. He looked at the various brushes and powders in the room. It couldn’t be that hard.</p>
<p>XXX</p>
<p>“Oh, wow, Millie, where’d you get those clothes?”</p>
<p>Those were the first words he heard after he got downstairs after he got dressed. It was this one’s mother. He looked at her, the words slowly making sense. ‘Millie’ was what this one would be expected to respond to, huh? He’d try to remember.</p>
<p>The mother would expect a response, and he struggled to shrug his shoulders. Interacting with people was a pain.</p>
<p>“Oh, um… if you’re going to school, you’re going to be late, Josh and Nyla won’t be at the park to pick you up by now, um… I’ll drive you, OK?”</p>
<p>Nod.</p>
<p>Fine.</p>
<p>He’d pick up where he left off. He was going to bathe the school in blood. Slit their throats, wet gurgles, wide eyes, fading light, twitching fingers, helpless whimpers, blood-</p>
<p>He forced himself to stop the flow of imagery as he felt flutters low in his belly, a manic grin pulling at his lips. He had to at least control himself until he was delivered to his hunting grounds.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>I may add more chapters if anyone expresses interest, but for now, this is the story I wanted to write. I hope you enjoyed!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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